Get up to 65% off some of our top titles. Shop now |
Product details
Would you like to update product info or give feedback on images?
|
Product Description
Lighthouse Literary Reviews, June 2006
This is a taut and exciting thriller ... one of the best mysteries that I have read this year.
Excerpted from After the Game by Norman Chastain. Copyright © 2005. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Quarterflash. Queen. He alphabetized compact disks. His sweaty fingers stuck to the lining of the yellow rubber gloves. Smashing Pumpkins before the Supremes. He restored order—absolute order.
He shuffled the Backstreet Boys and the Beatles with a collection of Beethoven’s best, then shrugged. To rank Margaret Gordon’s diverse music accumulation by achievement invited subjectivity, an imperfect touch he could not accept.
It was after three in the morning. His eyes blurred on the next two plastic cases. He inserted Al Jarreau in the slot behind the Indigo Girls. He nabbed Jethro Tull’s THICK AS A BRICK between his index finger and thumb. The inept, the sloppy, thought Jethro Tull played flute, sang lead, and often categorized the artist in the ‘T’ section. Any half-wit knew Ian Anderson played flute for Jethro Tull, the rock band—filed under ‘J.’
Two disks remained. He grinned, satisfied, and jammed Aerosmith and ABBA—the Swedish cornerstone of any alphabetized music compilation—into reserved slots at the front of the flimsy CD rack.
He stood from one knee, smoothed the depression in the shag carpet with the toe of his shoe, and walked through the living room of her small house. The quaint two-bedroom home, a short walk from Bayshore Boulevard, befitted a teacher’s modest earnings. He hesitated at the bedroom door, gazed into the yellow light, and strolled forward.
Margaret’s golden hair fanned out on the shoulder of a cream nightgown and shimmered in forty-watt lighting. She lay atop the print comforter, her delicate fingers interlocked. Asleep forever, a bloody halo blemished the angelic portrait. He had bathed her and brushed the tangles from her hair. Deep red blood clotted in a pool on the pillow.
He stared at Margaret’s peaceful features. His eyes followed her sharp cheekbones. Margaret’s long eyelashes entombed hazel green eyes. Her passionate sparkle dimmed for eternity. Remorseful, he sighed, "I didn’t mean to." He had wanted to make love with Margaret, not murder her.
His other victims were convenient. A pantyhose run, a lipstick-smeared tooth—grating annoyances pushed him beyond sanity’s vague boundary. Margaret was different. He loved her. Why didn’t she listen? He told her, "Not tonight." She pleaded with him to drop by after the game. He knew better. He should have remained steadfast, strong. He surrendered to lustful temptation, thinking this time he could banish the demons for Margaret.
Wrong. Demons never back down.
Tag this product(What's this?)Think of a tag as a keyword or label you consider is strongly related to this product.
Tags will help all customers organize and find favorite items. |
Customer Reviews
|
There are no customer reviews yet.
|
|||
|
Video reviews
|
 |
Customer Discussions
|
This product's forum
Active discussions in related forums
|
Look for similar items by category
Look for similar items by subject
Feedback
- Would you like to update product info or give feedback on images?
- I am the Author, and I want to comment on my book.
- I am the Publisher, and I want to comment on this book.
Your Recent History
(What's this?)|
After viewing product detail pages or search results, look here to find an easy way to navigate back to pages you are interested in. |
